From Here
by peanutbutterer
Summary: There is no Atlantis in the skyline. ElizabethJohnRononRodney friendship and JohnElizabeth ship.
1. Chapter 1

Elizabeth dips the wooden spoon into the large clay pot and begins to stir slowly, producing warm, spicy vapors that rise to tickle her nose. She inhales deeply and thinks of garlic, of images of home.

She envisions herself in a kitchen with broad paned windows overlooking a sprawling green yard. The sounds that greet her ears are the hum of conversation from the dining room and the clatter of a table being set. She wraps her hands around the limp brown leaves (basil) and tears them before sprinkling the herb into her stew. She slices the thin-skinned vegetable (tomato), and the juices trail down her wrist as she transfers wedges into the pot. Absently, she wipes her fingers on her worn and tired shirt and imagines it a bright red apron proclaiming "'Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers."

Ronon appears beside her, arms full of tubers (potatoes) and deposits them onto the flat, wooden surface. "All peeled. You want me to chop?"

Elizabeth nods and he grabs her discarded knife, fingers wrapping firmly around the handle. He switches it to his left and sucks at the juice on his right palm.

"Sticky," he explains.

She smiles.

--

"Sixty, seventy, I don't know," Radek answers anxiously, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Too many," John summarizes. He pushes off from his perch on the edge of his chair. "And how is it that we didn't detect this sooner?"

"Long-range sensors were disabled," Radek admits. "We didn't even realize they weren't functional. Someone has been altering the program coding and –"

"And citywide life sign detectors are also jammed," Rodney finishes hurriedly. "We're trying to get them back online but they're cutting in and out. It's as if someone –"

"And the ZPM?" she cuts him off. When all is said and done she'll worry about the why and the how, and possibly the who, but for now she doesn't have time to concern herself with things that won't help get them out of this.

McKay shakes his head without losing focus, continuing to punch numbers into his data pad. "There's not enough power to withstand an attack of this magnitude. Even if we combined everything we've got and somehow managed to get the shield powered up, there's no way it would hold against an all out assault. Elizabeth," he looks up finally, voice tight with fear, "we may already have Wraith in the city."

Elizabeth nods to acknowledge the conclusion she's already drawn. She weaves her fingers together tightly and takes a moment to draw a single deep breath and clear her head. This wasn't the way it was supposed to end. But it was certainly one of the possibilities, she reminds herself. A possibility for which they had long ago been forced to prepare.

She meets Rodney's eyes. "Send the coordinates of our current alpha and delta sites to the SGC and then disable the gate's ability to dial intergalactically. I want to leave no possibility that the Wraith will be able to reach Earth." She turns to John. "Once that's done, begin to evacuate the city and the mainland to the alternate sites. Make sure that we evenly disburse the marines and scientists. I want both groups to take with them sufficient supplies to survive for at least two weeks. Everyone should be out of here in –" she looks to Rodney for a timeframe.

He throws his hands up helplessly. "The ships will be here in less than four hours."

"Well then," she continues, forcing an air of calm determination though it's the antithesis of her current mental state, "let's make sure Atlantis isn't still standing."

--

"It was nothing like that," Rodney explains to Elizabeth while hunching protectively over his small bowl of stew. "That tall tale was decidedly more dramatic than the way it actually played out."

"Right. _I'm_ the one who exaggerates stories," John rejoins before sipping at the spoonful of broth that's poised on his lips. He hisses as the liquid burns his tongue but doesn't slow his consumption.

"You're making it sound like you're some kind of hero when really it was only the size of a housecat."

John shifts on the log to bring himself closer to the fire. "A feral housecat."

"If it were feral it wouldn't be a –" Rodney cuts himself off, unsure of which bit of logic to refute. "Feral housecats are the same size as domesticated ones."

"Physically maybe."

"Oh, please."

Ronon grunts, dragging the back of his hand across his unshaven mouth. "Did you kill it?"

A cool wind blows as Elizabeth continues to listen, her stomach filling with the warmth of the meal, her soul with their company. It wasn't always like this, she remembers, but it has been lately, and she thinks that maybe – just maybe – they've settled.

They've finally built a home.

--

The musty smell of Teyla's perspiration mixes with the smoke of electrical fires and Elizabeth's eyes water as she gasps for air. Her fingers dig into light brown flesh as she tries futilely to pry the Athosian's forearm from her throat.

Ronon lifts his gun and aims it, his finger dancing anxiously above the trigger.

"Teyla," John continues his attempt to get through to her, "I know you're still in there somewhere." He licks his lips and eases toward her. "You need to let Elizabeth go. The self destruct is going off in – Rodney?"

"Two minutes and eighteen seconds," McKay calls over his shoulder, continuing his frantic effort to unscramble whatever Teyla has done to the doors. The pulse of the alarm is barely audible between explosions now.

"And we need to get out of here," John finishes with a fervor Elizabeth can't quite bring herself to match. They're much farther than two minutes from the Stargate.

"I will not release her." Teyla's voice is altered – unfamiliar and deep and chilling. She adjusts her grip as she bares her teeth and Elizabeth manages to slide an inch lower, dropping her elbow to hover just under Teyla's floating ribs. After a quick glance at John, Elizabeth thrusts hard into Teyla's gut, causing her captor to release her hold slightly. With a strong burst of energy she pries herself free and dives to the floor just as John and Ronon step forward.

Teyla growls and hisses, writhing with an internal struggle Elizabeth knows all too well.

"Get us out of here, Teyla," John instructs, his voice rising slightly. "We need to get out of the city."

She shakes her head and, for just a moment, Elizabeth thinks she see's a note of recognition in those deep brown eyes. In halting, disjointed paces, Teyla works her way toward a terrified Rodney, walking as if weighed down by misguided muscles, torn in two directions and struggling to break free. Two feet from the control panel she stops but her body refuses to still. Slowly her hand rises. Her torso contorts awkwardly and she twists at her waist, turning away from the door. The pistol shakes as it comes to rest against her own temple.

"Teyla," Elizabeth dissuades warily, but the Athosian makes no indication that she hears. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained on John, deep and pleading, and the request is unmistakable. _Forgive me_.

The final alarm sounds and he lunges for her a moment before she pulls the trigger. The city shakes and Elizabeth screams.

--

She eases herself onto the hammock and tugs at the leather binding in her hair, releasing rich brown curls that tumble to her shoulders and sweep across her back. She slips off her shoes, her pants and shirt, and tucks herself neatly beneath the covers, a heavy sigh sinking her further into the soft, forgiving material.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth," Rodney calls from his hammock nearby, his voice thick with slumber. "Goodnight Ronon."

Elizabeth wishes them both goodnights and Ronon allows a guttural hum of acknowledgment from deep in his throat.

In the beginning they had slept alone, but it hadn't taken long to realize that the abstract rules of society and Earth held scant value when compared to the steady sound of someone else's breathing. She knows now there is little that surpasses the comfort she finds in Rodney's soft nocturnal mumblings or the constant rhythm of Ronon snoring – the calm of falling asleep and waking up in a place that isn't quite as desolate as the world in their dreams.

The wooden door creeks slowly open and John enters, smelling of smoke and dust and darkness. He toes off his shoes and removes his clothing before lifting the blankets and sliding in next to Elizabeth.

The weight of his body buckles the cloth, bringing her closer to his warmth and causing the skin of his legs to brush against her own. His hand finds hers and their fingers tangle.

Her dreams are sweeter.

--

She hears the heavily muffled sound of John calling her name and struggles to find the strength to blink open her eyes. Her head is pounding like a bass drum and her body burns with a steady ache. She tries to recall the last thing that happened and remembers only the tremors of the exploding city and visions of Teyla crumpling to the floor.

"Elizabeth?" His voice is still muffled but louder, closer perhaps. She manages to pry her eyes open.

The world is thick and blue and it takes her longer than is reasonable to realize she's looking at it through an opaque sheet of crystal. Her hands splay across her cage and her breathing becomes rapid.

"Relax, Elizabeth," his blurry figure reassures her. "It's some sort of escape pod. There's a latch on the inside, down by your left hip."

She takes a shallow breath and fumbles until she finds what he's described. Her fingers wrap around the mechanism and pull, causing half of her shell to fold open like an envelope.

As the salty sea air fills her lungs John clasps her hand and assists in easing her out of the pod. Her muscles are sore and tired and she's still not quite sure what's going on, but John's –

"John," she stumbles on her words, her fingers unconsciously reaching for his face but stopping just before she touches him, "your beard."

He puts a reflexive hand to his cheek and brushes his dark stubble as he meets her gaze. "Yeah, it seems we were in those things for a few days at least. I'm not exactly sure yet."

"I'd say about two weeks," Rodney's voice floats over the soft lap of waves and Elizabeth turns to find him crouched in the sand a few yards from her, hovering over a pod not unlike the one from which she's just emerged. Another scan of her surroundings finds Ronon looming in the distance, just at the edge of the tree line.

"Where are," she starts to ask, but can't complete the question as her eyes settle on a piece of curled and broken metal, then move systematically through the painfully familiar debris that litters the pale white shore.

"The mainland," John answers. "It appears that when the self-destruct blew it triggered some sort of built-in individualized escape. Rodney's trying to figure it out."

His hand trails lightly up her arm and he squeezes her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

She blinks away tears as images of Teyla, of Wraith, of things she'd rather forget swim to the surface. She turns to the ocean. She's not sure if it's a sunrise or a sunset but it's beautiful and rich, orange and gold and pink.

There is no Atlantis in the skyline.

"No," she answers softly. "No, I don't think so."

--

John stirs, drawing her from a peaceful slumber as he brings his lips to her ear. "There's something outside," he says quietly, his breath hot against her skin. "Stay here and don't make a sound."

She clutches the edge of the hammock, rocking slightly as John pulls himself to his feet, wordlessly communicating with Ronon across the darkened room. Shadows play out the scene as John slips efficiently into his pants and palms his knife, and Ronon grabs his gun before creeping slowly toward the door.

John motions to Rodney who skirts his way across the cabin to join Elizabeth on her bed.

Her pulse quickens and she strains to listen, to distinguish and identify foreign sounds from beneath the constant howling of the wind. She hears a faint whisper of words, of boots scraping rock, and suddenly she knows that it isn't something outside, it's _someone_.

For all of their searching thus far they'd been unable to find a second Stargate. She tenses as she considers the possibilities. Either they've been living for the past two and a half years with company they've never seen or a ship has come.

"Do you think?" Rodney asks softly. For some reason she finds she's unable to answer. Instead, she curls her fingers around his and squeezes.

John pulls the door open and Ronon levels his gun. She can't see anything from her position on the bed but she can hear soft shouts and makes out the words "friend" and "peace."

Ronon lowers his weapon and she cautiously picks her way toward the door, her heart still thrumming in her ears. Before she can reach the threshold she catches a glimpse of what's outside and stills. Military. SGC uniforms.

They've come for them.

"Colonel Sheppard?" a marine asks with audible disbelief. "You're alive, sir?"

"It seems so," John answers on an exhale.

Rodney jumps to his feet and brushes past her in his rush to the door. "What the hell took you so long?" the scientist demands. "What kind of half-ass rescue mission takes thirty months?"

"We didn't," another marine fumbles over his words. "It isn't a rescue – we came with the archeologists –" he cuts himself off again. "We didn't know, sir."

Elizabeth opens her mouth and takes a deep breath but says nothing. She turns back to her hammock and slowly pulls on her clothing. When she's finished she takes a moment to trail her hand along the coarse wood walls of their small cabin. Tuning her ears briefly back to the conversation outside she hears names and dates and apologies, but she listens to the sound of the ocean. And, though she can't quite swear to it, she thinks she hears a shift in the wind – a change of direction.

She looks again to the door and hugs her arms to her chest. She used to dream of being saved – dreams so vivid, so intense and real that she sometimes wondered if perhaps her days were nightmares and her nights the reality. She would wake in a cold sweat, dig her fingers into John's warm embrace to determine if he was truly there, and when she found he was, silent tears would fall. But now…

Intentional or not, it is a rescue – and they are going home.


	2. Chapter 2

--

They're beamed off of the Daedalus directly into the heart of the SGC and it feels... off – wrong, somehow. It's strange and ill-fitting that after more than two years of living stranded on the shores of a distant galaxy they emerge back on Earth without so much as a forward step. Everything has suddenly changed and she hasn't lifted a finger to guide their direction.

It should be a reunion, a relief to be back where she knows she belongs, but instead she feels what she can only describe as a small tingle of apprehension.

She notes that the silence of the room, the absence of the ocean's soft lull, is loud and constant. She recognizes the thought as incongruous, but it's there nonetheless. She fights the urge to bring her hands to her ears to deafen it.

"Welcome home," Landry offers.

She flinches at his choice of words but nods anyway. "Thank you, General, it's good to be back." She offers a wan smile in return. Right now the only thing keeping her upright is the warmth of Rodney's presence beside her and the faint brush of John's fingers against the back of her hand.

Landry makes no indication that he notices her discomfort. "I'm sure you'll want to shower and get cleaned up. First we'll need you to head to the infirmary. I suspect this debrief will be lengthy, so we'll hold off on that until tomorrow."

She nods her thanks.

Landry opens his mouth to say something but hesitates a moment. His eyes are welcoming and warm, but she still feels cold. "It's good to see you all," he says at length.

She imagines he feels guilty – knowing now that they were alive and he didn't pursue a rescue. She notes the down-turned set of his shoulders, the uncertainty of his posture, and considers offering reassurances, telling him all that really matters is that a rescue eventually came and they're here now. But in the end she finds she can't. Somehow in the last few years her ability to say things for the sake of saying them – to say things she doesn't mean – has faded, and she's already used her allocation of platitudes for the day.

Though what she finds most unsettling is that she's not entirely sure why she wouldn't mean it.

--

"The pods," Rodney declares, approaching her from behind. "It was the pods."

John manages to roll his eyes as he strains under the weight of his armful of firewood. "Gee, Rodney," he grounds out, "so nice of you to help."

"What?" McKay asks distractedly before flicking his gaze to where Ronon is chopping apart a large, felled tree. "Oh, right – whatever. Listen," he turns back to Elizabeth, "it was the pods."

She shifts on her knees and continues her task of shaving away bark. "What was the pods, Rodney?"

"The reason we're still here."

"Yeah," John says irritably, "we kind of got that already. They saved us. Now if you're not going to lift anything you could at least work on some more withes." John picks up a green switch and tosses it to McKay before joining Ronon in lifting the next log. Rodney catches it and takes a moment to examine it distastefully before reluctantly beginning work.

"No, I mean the reason we're _still here_," he emphasizes, bending the supple twig in his hands.

Elizabeth's knife stills and her eyebrows track a path high on her forehead. "What are you talking about?"

"We were essentially hibernating for two weeks after the city self-destructed, kept alive in stasis inside the pods. It was ingenious really, keeping us in suspended animation would make us invisible to any attempt by the Wraith to scan for life signs –"

"But then the Daedalus wouldn't be able to see us either," she draws the logical conclusion. "So that means –" she trails off, partly because she doesn't want to hear the words, but mostly because she doesn't know that she's ready to think about what this means for their future.

"Exactly. It's likely the rescue mission was already launched and returned back to Earth having found no survivors."

--

"We received your data burst and immediately sent the Daedalus and the Prometheus to the alpha and delta sites," Landry explains, leaning forward in his black leather chair. His shirt is a pale blue and his tie a deep navy – and she doesn't know why she expected anything to have changed. "When we arrived we found expedition members as well as several dozen Athosians. We offered to take everyone back to Earth. A few of the scientists and the majority of the Pegasus natives opted to remain. Those that wished to stay were relocated to another planet. In the end, we retrieved approximately one hundred and twenty assorted marines and civilians." He pauses, folding his hands in front of him carefully. "We went back to Lantea and swept for signs of life but found nothing. The wreck of the city was so massive – combined with lack of detection – we just assumed there was no one left alive."

John nods. "Yeah, we figured as much."

It's true – that was what they had assumed all along. The explanation is entirely reasonable and the SGC did what it was expected to do, what she would have done. Their means of detection saw no life and therefore there was none to discover. She can't really find it in herself to fault them for that, to be angry or bitter. In fact, she's rather impassive about the entire thing – which she finds more than a little strange. An emotional reaction would be understandable, if not expected given the circumstances. The only emotion she's registering at the moment, however, is an illogical sense of loss, and she's struggling to understand it. They haven't lost anything, she reminds herself stubbornly. They've returned home.

She realizes her team is looking to her and raises her gaze from the tabletop. She clears her throat. "Why did you come back?" she asks finally.

"Doctor Jackson requested he and a team of scientists be allowed to accompany the marines this time."

Four pair of eyes widen as the last two words leave his lips. _This time_.

He notices their almost audible surprise and answers the unspoken question. "We've been attending to the Athosians and the members of the expedition that didn't come home, sending them supplies to help them get started on a new world. This was our third return trip to Pegasus since the attack." His gaze flicks down to his hands and then back up to meet Elizabeth's. "We wouldn't have returned to Lantea if the archaeologists hadn't wanted to survey the remains of Atlantis – to see if anything was salvageable."

Rodney chuckles humorlessly. "Turns out it was just us."

--

She's standing on the shore, ankle deep in saltwater, watching as Ronon and John attempt to spear fish for their evening meal. They've spent the morning whittling the ends of pronged branches and are now wielding them like pitchforks just beyond the first break of small waves.

"It's been a month," Rodney observes from behind her. He's standing a few feet from the water's edge, pants rolled up in preparation but still unwilling to take the final steps.

She nods and raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, half listening to Ronon explain the finer points of pining versus piercing. Apparently the former is the more successful technique.

They're learning to exist here on the mainland, learning to survive, and it's been a much easier transition than she had anticipated. There have been hard times of course, bumps in the road, and the memories of Atlantis' last moments are still painful and strong – but their day to day existence has become manageable. They've begun to develop patterns, fallen into a sort of rhythm, and she finds it almost soothing.

"We should make something more permanent," Rodney says after a while. "Somewhere to live. I don't think I can handle this tent crap much longer."

In all the time the Athosians had been settled here they'd never created a four-walled structure. There were no buildings, nothing solid. She expects it never occurred to them to create something lasting. They were born in a galaxy where life hung in the balance and living meant moving. The Wraith could come at any time and appear at any place. There was no reason they would feel the Lantean mainland was different.

In the end, they were right.

She twists her shoulders so that she can face him and raises her eyebrows. "What's wrong with the tents?"

He shrugs, face sour as he watches John and Ronon, still hovering like anxious statues, poised for their moment of action. "It's not home."

_But it can be_, she thinks.

--

Her new apartment in Colorado Springs turns out to be both too big and too small.

For the past two years she lived in a one-room cabin with a single door that opened up onto an empty planet. Now she finds herself living in a three-room condominium with neighbors on both sides and two inhabited stories below, and she feels like some twisted combination of Alice and Goldilocks – hurled into a foreign world where nothing fits quite right. She's finding that she can't mold herself into the person she used to be, the one that once was a part of this world.

When she's alone she's too alone – she misses the constant rumbling of a companion's conversation. The emptiness seems to echo around her, chilling her in ways that even burying herself in blankets fails to soothe. When she's surrounded by people she feels like she's suffocating. The unrepentant hollow noise of voices on top of voices pounds relentlessly in her head and seems to suck the oxygen from the room, making her feel as though she can't quite get enough air.

As illogical as it seems, the transition back to Earth is proving to be inexplicably harder than one that came in the days following the fall of Atlantis. She finds herself missing the mainland. Missing what they found there.

As a concession to her bifurcated inner-self she's decided to leave her new residence sparsely decorated. A small single bed, a dresser in her room and a couch in the front serve as her only furniture. She's been contemplating a table for her kitchen but the built-in bar has served the purpose well enough thus far and she can't really find reason to change. She invites no guests, and take-out and delivery don't require much surface area anyway.

Somewhere deeper she knows that this is only a bandage – ineffective and ridiculous against an internal wound such as the one she bears. She hurts in ways shuffling her physical surroundings won't cure – but it's easier this way. It's easier to control inanimate objects in the privacy of her own apartment than it is to appeal to others for something she has no excuse for needing.

She's an adult, a grown woman living in a modern world, and she should be able to handle things herself. Depending on others was understandable when she needed them to survive but she's no longer in that situation.

She's lost something and it's tearing her apart, but it's something she shouldn't need. And that makes it so much harder to find.

--

"Nice work." McKay looks up and flinches when a raindrop hits him squarely between the eyes. He wipes at his face dramatically and makes another attempt to sidestep the various streams of water that pour in from the ceiling. "Stellar construction."

Elizabeth winces at his tone and shifts closer to John in hopes of preventing the inevitable explosion.

He takes an angry step toward Rodney. "I didn't see you helping," John retorts sharply. "If you're such a skilled architect perhaps you could have lent your assistance."

The rain pounds loudly on the roof of their newly constructed shelter, but at this point she has to acknowledge that it's acting more as a sieve than anything else. Sighing, she places an empty bowl beneath the largest leak and removes the one that's currently overflowing. Quirking an eyebrow, she attempts to interject a note of levity. "At least it blocks the wind."

McKay wraps his arms around himself and his teeth begin to chatter. He glares at her. "So does Ronon."

"Hey," John bristles defensively, "I've never been Robinson Crusoe before. It's going to take time before I can construct the Sistine Chapel."

"I'd settle for a shanty that didn't leak."

Ire flares in John's eyes and his hands clench into angry fists. He stands stalk still for a moment before spinning on his heel and storming out the door.

Ronon growls but Elizabeth catches his eye, giving him a discouraging shake of her head before following after John.

She steps out into the pouring rain and upturns the bowl, depositing it on the ground just outside the cabin. Soft moonlight faintly illuminates the landscape but doesn't provide enough visibility to see much – though it doesn't really matter; she knows where he has gone.

He doesn't turn around when she pulls back the worn canvas flap and steps into the tent, but he does answer her unvoiced question. "I'm sick of it," he says tightly. "He can make his own god damned cabin."

She lowers herself to the ground beside him, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. It does little to warm the chill but it does give her something to do with her hands. "It hasn't been easy for him, John."

"Yeah?" He twists to face her. "Well it hasn't been a walk in the park for me either, Elizabeth."

"I know," she assures him gently. "But Rodney – you fit here, John." She puts a hand up to forestall his objection. "I know you don't like it here. I know this isn't where you want to be but you do have a place. Both you and Ronon can acclimate to this world, you can live this life. Rodney and I," she shrugs helplessly, "we don't know how."

"Well maybe if he helped out a little he'd learn something."

She shakes her head and water droplets fall from the ends of her hair, splashing against her arms. "He's not used to needing direction – he's used to giving it. You've got to give him some time."

John scoffs at that. "Tomorrow will be three months. How much more time does he need?"

"And in those three months have you ever needed him?" She tilts her head slightly to look at him. "Has there been anything that has required Rodney's expertise?"

He huffs out a breath and wrinkles his forehead. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Elizabeth. Why would we need a scientist? A caveman would be of more assistance."

"Maybe there's more use for science than you think." She pulls herself in tighter and rests her chin on her knees.

He falls silent for a moment, considering. "And you?" he asks at length. "What about you? You're not trained to exist in survival mode and somehow you haven't become bitter and selfish."

"But I've always depended on the skills of the team to accomplish goals," she reminds him. "I gathered an expedition of advisers, not minions."

That draws a laugh and she allows herself to smile.

"Just do me a favor and try, John," she asks and he nods his acquiescence.

"Hey," he says with a concerned frown, "you're shivering."

"I'm a little cold," she admits.

"Come on." He pulls her to her feet and wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Let's get back to the shanty and see what we can do about plugging those leaks." He gives her a sideways grin. "And if all else fails, at least it blocks the wind."

--

"So, I guess this means that all it takes to get you out of your condo is a formal invitation. If only I'd have known sooner I could have saved myself a lot of hassle."

He's smiling when he says it, so she doesn't take the comment too seriously, but there's an edge to his words and she can't help but feel a bit of a sting.

"John," she nods to his service dress, "you're looking good." She says it formally, suppressing even the slightest hint of emotion.

He must read something in her eyes anyway, because he chooses to keep the tone of the conversation light. He wraps his hand around the knot of his tie and adjusts it, lifting his chin slightly. "This old thing? Just something I threw on."

"That would explain why it's all cockeyed," she says, managing a wry smile. She motions for him to turn around and then steps up to him, brushing her hands smoothly across his shoulders before sliding her fingers down the length of his arms to tug lightly at the cuffs of his jacket. It's the first time she's touched him in weeks. When she's finished he turns back around to face her and grins his thanks. She wants, her fingers curl against the temptation, to trail a hand across his clean shaven cheek as well, but instead she nods her approval and allows her gaze to drift back to the crowd.

Rodney makes his way from across the room, all the while pulling on the collar of his shirt and looking thoroughly uncomfortable in his classic black tuxedo. When he reaches them he waves the paper plate clutched loosely in his hand. "Lemon cake," he says with distaste. "I bet she did it on purpose." He discards the offending dessert on a passing waiter's tray and exchanges it for a flute of champagne.

Elizabeth considers refuting the point out of courtesy but she's pretty sure that it's true. Lt. Cadman always did find a certain pleasure in tormenting poor Rodney – not that he didn't return it fully.

"Ronon in a tux," John observes and she follows his line of sight. People mill and socialize in between them but she can still clearly make out the object of his attention on the far side of the room, as well as the surrounding gaggle of women. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone literally swoon before."

Rodney takes a sip of his drink. "Well, you know how women are with foreigners. Just multiply that tenfold if they're from an alien planet in an entirely different galaxy."

"Earth girls are easy," John summarizes.

"Exactly."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes and finds herself slipping easily into the banter. "From your mission reports it would appear that Earth isn't the only planet to have women with that particular affliction." She raises a challenging eyebrow.

John waves her off. "McKay just has a lot of charm. You can't blame them."

She laughs in spite of herself and Rodney puffs up, either unaware or choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm in John's tone.

"There was Norina," he says with a smug grin. "She found me quite desirable."

"Yeah, well, she was a blonde."

McKay looks as though he's stranded somewhere in between bewildered and offended. "So?"

"So," John says as if it were the most obvious statement in the world, "blondes are known for their stupidity."

"Ugh," Rodney scoffs, "that is just – I don't even know where to start with that. First of all, the color of a woman's hair has nothing to do with her intelligence. Look at Samantha Carter, for example. She's the second most brilliant person I know. And to imply that one would have to lack intellect to find me attractive? Both ludicrous and obviously prompted by a deeply seated feeling of inadequacy toward me and other people who are genetically your superior."

"Genetically my superior? What parallel universe are you living in?"

Rodney and John continue to squabble and Elizabeth snags a glass of champagne. She takes a sip and absently surveys the room as she listens to their argument. She'll never tell them, of course, but she's missed this. When she's with them she can breathe again.

She wonders if adjusting to life on Earth is as hard for them as it is for her, or if they're even struggling at all. They probably aren't, she tells herself. It's her own weakness that makes her seek the companionship she'd had on the mainland. These are three strong men who have found their place here and she just needs to get on with finding hers.

Ronon approaches, somehow freed from his entourage, and she tries to pull herself from her thoughts. She's well-aware that she's slipped into maudlin and she feels ridiculous – adding an entirely new dimension of self-pity to an already impressive array.

"Found some friends?" John asks.

Ronon shrugs. "What's a Fabio?"


	3. Chapter 3

She swings open the heavy wood door and steps tentatively inside, substituting the noise of the street for the hum of conversation and indistinguishable music piped through speakers.

The hostess tells her that her order will be ready in ten minutes and if she could just have a seat they'll have it out soon. She nods and moves to the long wooden bench, absently scanning the room. On her way she almost stumbles, her eyes and her breath catching involuntarily when she spots a distinct spike of hair perched next to a tousled mane of long dreadlocks.

For the briefest of moments she entertains the thought of pretending she doesn't see them. Almost as much as she wants to join them, to laugh with them, she wants to stay hidden beneath the shadows of the dark, crowded restaurant. She doesn't want to worry about saying the wrong thing and exposing herself. Tucked away in a corner she doesn't have to ward herself against the vulnerability of her emotions. But by the time she's registered their presence it's already too late. Even if they never discover the depth of her betrayal, she will know – and she has enough things she hasn't forgiven herself for.

Each step is forced and measured as she winds past the hostess, over to the bar and closer to everything she's been so expeditiously avoiding. She hasn't seen either of them in weeks now, hasn't returned their calls, and has even gone so far as to pretend she isn't home when they come to knock on her door. There's something terrifying about seeing them that she can't quite nail down – but it's a force she has great difficultly fighting. Being around them sends memories humming through her and she can't help but fear the empty feeling that's left in their wake. It's easier if she keeps her distance, if she doesn't allow those emotions to be triggered in the first place.

She arrives beside them too quickly. This is the moment she's been dreading – the one she knew would happen. She just wishes she'd had more time to prepare.

Reaching out, she touches John's shoulder blade lightly before easing into the chair beside him. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world," she says when she finds her voice.

John smiles wryly and Ronon offers only vague confusion.

"What?" she asks with feigned surprise. "No _Casablanca_ yet?" She turns to John. "Don't tell me your cinematic history lessons have been limited to action and science fiction. What about _An Affair to Remember_?"

"Yeah, we're going to watch that one right after _Steel Magnolias_."

Ronon frowns. "I thought you said tonight we were watching _The Grandfather_."

"Godfather," John corrects. He looks to Elizabeth and shrugs in explanation. "The rental place didn't have any girl movies in stock."

"Right," she draws out the word with a shake of her head, overwhelmed by the desire to stay. She feels better when she's with them – like she's where she's supposed to be. Like she never wants to leave. "Anyway," she tries to smile but it feels more like a wince, "I was just picking up some food. I should be heading out."

John grabs her wrist before she can slip away. "You've been avoiding us."

She twists on her stool and her free hand brushes away an errant curl. "I haven't." She hopes she sounds indignant instead of guilty. When he only continues to look at her she huffs a breath out in exasperation. Sighing a little, she pulls her hand away and traces a water spot on the bar with the tip of her finger. Her eyebrows dip low on her forehead. "I have," she admits after a minute.

"Why don't you join us?"

She stands up and smoothes her skirt. "I need to get going," she whispers, unsure of who she's trying to convince. "I've got…" she nods to the door. "I shouldn't –"

"You should," Ronon interrupts.

John's hand slides down to hers and he grasps it. "You should."

This isn't what she wants, but she knows it doesn't matter. It's too soon. She isn't strong enough yet.

--

She's huddled dangerously close to the fire, but the nip of the flame manages only to take the edge off the cold – underneath her bulky clothing she's still chilled down to her core. She's skinnier now, more sinewy, and she finds that her thin frame does little to protect against the elements. The change is more noticeable than she would have imagined.

She pulls the cuffs of her shirt over her palms and anchors them down with her fingers. She never realized before that Lantean winters were so fierce. What she wouldn't give to be back in the city in her temperature controlled room, tucked securely underneath her coarse synthetic comforter.

"Elizabeth," John says quietly as he comes up behind her, the sound of his footfalls dampened by the soft ground, "what are you still doing out here? You should be in bed."

The breeze makes her hair flutter over her cheeks, and she pushes at it with her sleeves, unwilling to expose her hands. She gives him a half-smile. "I wanted to stay by the fire," she explains, wrapping her arms across her torso to calm a small shudder.

He eases onto the log beside her and settles before he continues, "Don't you want to sleep?"

She manages to shrug, though her muscles are stiff and resist the exertion. "Too cold."

"Elizabeth," he draws her name out in a low sigh, "the wind chill out here can't be helping. Come inside."

She shakes her head and focuses her attention on the bright, orange embers. "Until we perfect that wood burning stove I think I'm better off right where I am."

He shares her view for a moment, watching the fire with a pensive frown before pushing himself up to his feet. "Come on." His hand reaches out and catches the material of her shirt. "It'll be warmer, I promise."

"Though I appreciate the walls of your magnificent structure, it really doesn't compare to a fire."

"It will," he assures her, tugging lightly. "Trust me."

Reluctantly, she trails after John as he makes his way to their small cabin. He swings the door open quietly and motions for her to precede him. Once inside, she crosses to her hammock, slipping off her shoes but leaving the rest of her clothing on for the modicum of warmth it provides. She peels back the thin blankets and eases beneath them, releasing a long sigh before curling herself into a tight ball. She already mourns the loss of the fire, but it does feel nice to lay her head down. When she shifts to face the room she's surprised to see John hovering expectantly nearby.

"Scoot," he instructs in a low whisper.

She does, watching in curious silence as he grabs the corner of her throw and crawls in beside her. He slips one arm under her head and the other around her waist and slowly pulls himself to her until their bodies are flush. Against her better judgment she finds herself rolling into him automatically, resting a hand on his chest and tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder as he adjusts the blankets around her. She can feel heat on her skin every time he exhales.

He slides a hand up to cover hers. "Better?" he whispers into her hair.

She squeezes his fingers and nods, unconsciously adopting his hushed tone. "Thank you."

The next morning she pries her eyes open as the first rays of sunlight stream through the cracks of their imperfect cabin walls. She's comfortable, warm, and more secure than she can remember feeling in quite a long time. Wriggling in her hammock, it's a moment before she recognizes the source of the heat as John's strong arms folded tightly around her. She smiles, and with a deep, cleansing breath and a catlike stretch… she burrows closer.

What feels like a moment after her eyes flutter closed, a hand tentatively presses on her shoulder. "Elizabeth," the voice whispers. "Elizabeth, wake up."

She blinks groggily and finds herself face to face with a rumpled looking McKay. John grumbles at the disturbance and adjusts his hold on her, sending a flush of heat to her cheeks as she takes stock of her position. The four of them have been living together for months now and their relationships are delicately balanced. Even though this situation with John is technically nothing, it _feels_ like it's something – and she's petrified that she may have in some way damaged the dynamic.

She rubs her eyes briskly with the heels of her hands and wills her blush to dissipate. She hesitates before asking, "What is it Rodney?"

"I'm hungry," he explains. "It's your turn to make breakfast." Without another word he turns and pads out the door.

As she untangles their legs and slips from the hammock she wonders at Rodney's lack of reaction. Maybe, she thinks, this doesn't change anything.

--

She eases open the large doors of Palmer Hall, the deep Romanesque arches bathing her in shadow. She blinks, eyes adjusting as she drags her hand slowly along the sandstone and slips quietly into sunlight. Students flood the grassy quad to make use of the early spring weather, and as they begin their impromptu game of Frisbee she allows her tired body to perch lightly on the stairs.

Lately she's found herself spending more and more time watching the activity that swirls around her, making a conscious effort to surround herself with people, albeit from a distance. The noise has gotten better, she notes, has become less jarring; but the loneliness has yet to abate.

A shadow falls across her legs and she squints up at the sun to pinpoint its source.

"Ronon," she greets warmly. His hair is still an unruly tangle but his shirt is a manufactured cotton blend and his pants are standard denim. She's not quite sure she'll ever get used to seeing him in Earth attire. He seems comfortable enough, but for some reason she knows he will always look slightly out of place to her. She lets a smile chase across her face as she studies him; she imagines it was John that encouraged him to wear the paddle ball t-shirt reading "Go play with yourself."

"What are you doing here?" she asks, lifting a hand to shield her eyes.

"Came to find you," he answers simply, his attention following the movement of the game. "We haven't seen you in a while."

She makes a sweeping gesture at the campus around her. "I've been busy," she explains.

He nods but she can tell he's unconvinced.

"So this is where you work."

She jerks a thumb behind her. "In there mostly."

"Stuffy?"

She wipes flakes of stone from her palms. "A little," she admits with a shrug. "But there's a beautiful little creek that winds along just outside campus. And there's a gorgeous view of Pike's Peak."

His eyes crinkle quizzically before drifting back to her. "Show me."

She lifts her finger to indicate the path but he only smiles and shakes his head.

"It's better to see the view together. Then it means something."

He holds out a hand but she knows that he is offering her something more. She hesitates only a moment before grasping it. It's time for a different approach, she decides.

She lets him escort her down the wide sidewalk and onto the trail that leads to the creek. They wind along with the water in relative silence, at times commenting on the landscape. She points out landmarks and vistas of particular beauty. He points out plants that look to be good hiding places for game. The chatter is superficial and insignificant but it does, she realizes, mean something.

"Ronon?" she asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the calm. She looks up at him and then turns her face away shyly. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

She bites her lip and stops beneath the shade of a large elm tree. The sound of the creek is louder here, more soothing than she's remembered. The silence stretches between them, gaining presence inch by inch. After one minute bleeds into two she shakes her head and says, "Never mind. It isn't important." She looks to the mountains and concentrates on the light breeze that brushes against her face.

He arches an eyebrow. "It's never a good sign when you say that."

Despite herself she grins. "Really?"

"Really," he affirms. He nudges her playfully with his elbow. "Ask your question."

She tips her head up to study him. "Why didn't you –" she stops and takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you go back to Pegasus? Why stay here?"

His gaze falls on hers and there's something in his eyes, something open and warm and she realizes that she's immeasurably glad he chose to stay, whatever the reason.

He shrugs. "This is where my family is."

She tilts her face to look up at the clouds. The sky is more blue than gold here. The trees are a deeper green. She thinks of Atlantis and the mainland, of Earth. Somewhere in between beaches and crystal lined corridors, between weddings and briefings and the whisper of stories by firelight, her definition of home has evolved. It's become something different, the concept no longer the same as she once understood it. Since she's been back she's been trying to squeeze it, to make it fit in ways that were awkward and contrived – when really, she should have embraced what she's known all along.

11It's amazing, she thinks, as the shadows shift on the leaves and sunlight filters through the branches, that though they come from different worlds they have so much in common.

She smiles.

--

As the heat fills their one-room home she sheds her jacket and reflects back on the past few weeks. The days have been cold recently, and they've been spending quite a bit more time cooped up in the small cabin, relegated to each other's company.

Life on the mainland is much different from life on Atlantis – and in ways far more expansive than the obvious material comforts. Their roles are different here, different strengths are valued above others, and their needs have changed. They've come to depend on each other in a manner that seems more complex than it was before – and maybe more necessary. They are the remaining, the ones left behind, and with the help of each other they will be the survivors.

Elizabeth relies on each man differently and they each have their own way of helping her to make it through the days. Ronon is her strength. He is constant and looming and she never doubts that he will be there for her. Since they've been here she's seen a side of him only hinted at during their time on Atlantis. He is strong, yes, but beneath the warrior is a man, and that man is one of the kindest souls she has ever encountered.

Rodney helps her to stay sane and grounded in reality. Of all of them he is the one who keeps Atlantis alive. He will always be Rodney and no amount of despair or destruction can dampen his constitution. He continues to be abrasive and egotistical, but his underlying spirit and love still remain and show themselves unexpected ways, just as they did back in the city.

John is her anchor and her comfort. He's the same quirky combination of whimsy and trouble, though he's grown harder. It's a necessity, she knows, and though Rodney can be the same man he was on Atlantis, there are some things in John that have been forced to change. His softer side is buried deeper now, but somehow it makes that facet of him even more compelling. She sees it still burning within him when he wraps himself around her at night and it lulls her to sleep with a feeling of peace that's more precious now than ever before.

And so, as she slips into her hammock tonight, she feels a small pang of regret. Today they finished constructing their wood-burning stove and tonight they will sleep in warmth for the first time. There won't be any need for John to hold her through the night.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth. Goodnight, Ronon."

"Goodnight, Rodney."

She pulls the blankets up around her shoulders and listens to the sound of the cabin door as it creaks open.

"Goodnight, John Boy," Rodney says with a yawn.

She can practically hear John roll his eyes and she smiles.

"'Night McKay."

When she feels him lift the edge of her blankets and ease carefully onto her hammock she tenses for a moment.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth," he murmurs into her ear as he pulls her in close to the warmth of his body.

She relaxes on an exhale and drifts slowly into sleep.

--

Her doorbell rings and she starts, almost dropping her large, wooden spoon. Sighing, she gives the broth a final stir before setting the utensil down, brushing her fingers through her hair and making her way across the small living room. Her hand hovers over the knob and she breathes deeply, inhaling and exhaling in a steady stream before grasping it.

She opens the door slowly, letting in a thin band of cold air and his smile.

"Hi."

"Hey," she steps back to let him in, "you're early."

He hitches a shoulder. "Yeah, sorry about that." Shrugging off his jacket, he tosses it absently over the arm of her couch. "We got back before we had planned and I didn't want to just sit around at the SGC. I figured maybe I could help you with dinner. It'll be like," he pauses and turns to face her, "like old times."

Her lips quirk upward slightly. "Ah, John Sheppard, ever the sentimentalist."

They smile tentatively at each other for another moment before she turns on her heel and moves back toward the kitchen. Shaking his head, he follows her.

"So," she says as she hands him an onion. She points to the cutting board. "How are things?"

"Pretty good. The team's been working out relatively well." John shrugs and pushes up his sleeves, then concentrates on peeling away at the outer layer.

"I imagine it's nice to be off-world again."

He takes the discarded skin and tosses it into the trash before glancing over his shoulder. "It's not the same."

She never imagined that it would be. "I know," she says softly. Sighing, she pulls open the cupboard door and retrieves two plates, thick, white ceramic that looks heavy but isn't. She spreads her colorful place settings out on the small bar and fusses, rearranging dishes and bowls to fit in the limited counter space.

"I guess I never realized how much Teyla ran interference between Ronon and Rodney until she wasn't there to do it," John muses while selecting a knife. "One of those things you don't recognize how much you relied on until it's gone."

She waits a beat and the room slides into silence. Resisting the urge to rub her hand over her breastbone, to attempt to find some physical release for the tension in her chest, she finally volunteers, "I miss her too." She moves the plates again to create more space for the napkins.

He nods as he chops. "Lorne's doing an admirable job of trying though."

"You could help him."

"I suppose," he says, but she knows he doesn't mean it. He probably believes it's one of the many burdens he must bear in order to preserve her memory. She's not sure if she thinks he's being ridiculous or understands completely. "You know," he says, twisting to point at her with his finger, "you might think about asking Landry to join a team. You're pretty rugged and we can always use a trained negotiator."

He grins when she rolls her eyes. "I have a job," she points out.

John stops slicing and puts his knife down. He drops his head, resting his weight on the heels of his hands and leaning into the counter. On a heavy sigh, he asks, "Elizabeth, are you happy?"

She spares him a quick glance, but finds he isn't facing her. "I like work," she answers lightly, busying herself with the task of collecting silverware.

He ignores her tone and pushes harder. "I mean the rest of the time," he clarifies. "Are you happy?"

She shifts the utensils from one hand to the other and tucks into place a stray wisp of hair. "I'm still adjusting I guess."

He twists to face her and rests his hip against the bar. Although she can't see him clearly, hasn't turned to look at him, she knows that he's staring at her. After an endless minute he says, "I'm not happy either."

She thinks about denying it, but only for a moment. "You're not?" She tilts her head slightly to see him.

"It's different here." He crosses his arms over his chest and shifts awkwardly. "It's not," he licks his lips, "right."

She tries not to sigh as his simple acknowledgment covers the slew of emotions she's been fighting since she returned. She tears her gaze away.

She's been walking a delicate line, and at first she thought she'd done the right thing. She'd found herself poised on the edge of a cliff and had forced herself to move in the only safe direction. She'd taken a step back to find perspective. But she realizes now that all she's found is that the footing here, without them, is even more precarious.

It's time to venture into new territory.

She takes a deep breath and says, "I was talking to Ronon." She focuses again on the forks and knives in her grasp. "We were talking about home."

John lets out a low chuckle. "Atlantis?" When she remains silent he pauses and frowns. "Pegasus?" He pauses again. "Our cabin?"

She ducks her head and shrugs a little. "I wasn't really sure," she admits. "But he knew." She places the silverware on the bar and stares at her hands, bargaining for time before giving voice to the thoughts she's been hiding for so long. Finally she squares her shoulders and turns to face him. "All this time I'd been – and he knew. I feel so," she begins, then bites her lip and runs a frustrated hand through her hair. "God, John, I was the leader of an intergalactic expedition and for the past eight weeks I haven't been able to make it through one day without wishing I was stranded on an alien planet." She waves her hand at the room. "This, here, it isn't home anymore."

"No," he agrees, "it isn't." John pushes off the counter with an awkward half-shrug. "I miss it too."

She sees something in his face, something she knows is reflected in her own, and it gives her enough courage to attempt to explain. "Home isn't a planet – it isn't," she swings her hand again helplessly, "an apartment. It's people." Home is John and Ronon and Rodney and the bond they found when they lost everything else that had mattered. It's the feeling she gets when she's with them. She forces her eyes to meet his. Her throat is tight and the words are hard to push out. "This place isn't home without you."

"I didn't know I needed you," he admits. His fingers reach out to curl around her wrist. "But I did." He takes a deep breath and adds, "I do."

Her gaze darts from his face to their clasped hands. She knew they were making confessions, but suddenly it's not the one she had thought. There's something in his bearing, a feeling that wraps itself around her, and she doesn't know quite what to make of it. The revelation catches her slightly off-balance and her eyebrows knit into a confused frown. She wants to shake his hand off; wants to grab his wrist and pull him closer. Caught between two polar reactions, she remains motionless.

"Elizabeth, I can't sleep. I lie awake every night with my arms wrapped around a pillow." He inches toward her, eating away at the distance that separates them. "I feel like there's something missing. Something we didn't even know that we had."

She keeps her eyes trained on him but doesn't move. "John, we've –"

"Don't make me say it," he insists. "You know I'm no good at this."

She thinks maybe he's better at it than she is.

"I need," he starts, reaching out with his free hand to touch her lightly, brushing his knuckles against her cheekbone. "I need you back."

Her heart stills as he leans toward her and her mind begins to race. She retraces the steps that brought them here and is trying to figure when and how he made this jump, but with his proximity comes clarity and she discovers that she doesn't really care.

She finds herself once again on a precipice. But this time she doesn't back away. Instead, she takes a deep breath and jumps. She meets him halfway.

--

"I'm going to the moon, and with me I'm going to take an Apache, brie, a centrifuge, a dog, enlisted men, _The Fountainhead_, a gastropod, a hatchet, infrared goggles, a jump rope, and," she can't see him in the darkness of the cabin but she imagines Rodney is furrowing his brow in deep concentration, "and a klystron."

Ronon grunts. "A what?"

Beside her, John groans. "McKay, you would not take a klystron to the moon."

"Who are you to say?" he asks, more than a little indignant.

"I might buy that you'd eat slugs – oh, I'm sorry _gastropods_ – but what exactly would you need to amplify?"

"Well I haven't gotten to the rest of the alphabet yet, have I?"

John shifts in irritation and she adjusts in his hold. She tries not to laugh at how cute it is that they're getting worked up over this. "You're just trying to use words Ronon doesn't know," he accuses.

"Isn't the point of the game to win?" He sounds exasperated now.

She can feel John's frustration more than she can hear it. It's in the tightness of his muscles and the thrum of his energy. "But you're supposed to take things you'd actually use."

"Oh, please. Like Elizabeth is going to use a jump rope."

She's not sure why but she bristles defensively. "I might," she insists though she knows it's a lie. She can feel John laughing against her back and she jabs him lightly with her elbow. He whispers _liar_ in her ear and then squeezes her tighter.

Rodney huffs dramatically. "This game sucks."

"What's a klystron?" Ronon asks again.

"You're the one that wanted to play a game," John reminds him, his tone more lighthearted than it had been before. "It's not like we have _Monopoly_."

"I know a game," Ronon offers.

"Which undoubtedly involves sticks."

He doesn't deny it.

She hums a soft smile as they continue to bicker, debating the pros and cons of various sources of entertainment.

It's nights like these that remind her of her childhood – those lazy vacations spent bundled together with family in their cabin by the lake. Every year they'd take the long summer days and do their best to experience the outdoors. They busied themselves with biking and boating, hiking and fishing, sun bathing and star gazing. Her favorite times, however, were their nights in the cabin. The nights when all of her cousins, young and old, had lumped together into one large bunk room and talked and laughed when they should have been sleeping.

Their cabin is smaller now, but the colloquy is almost indistinguishable, and the company fills her with the same glowing warmth.

The only difference she can pinpoint is that instead of a lake, she has an ocean. And right now, she can't think of one reason to complain. This is peace. This is comfort. This is them.

"We could play _Rock, Paper, Scissors_."

"Oh, just go to sleep, Rodney."

--

They institute monthly camping trips – just the four of them – though it's not necessarily done to send them back down memory lane. They don't need the wilderness and a lack of material comforts to remember what they've been through; it's with them every day in small, subtle ways. Rather, Elizabeth sees these excursions more as a way to connect, a way to reaffirm that no matter where they go in life, no matter where they land, they will always have each other.

John, of course, suggested that they overnight at a small lake requiring a fifteen mile hike and 'mild class four scrambling' to reach, while Rodney proposed they camp at one of those sites that has showers and a space for your car. As a compromise they found a little spot that's an hour walk from the parking lot. John and Ronon carry most of the gear; Rodney gets to pick out the food. In the end everyone is pleased, though both John and Rodney grumble a bit. But once the tents are up and the fire has started they forget where they are and how they've arrived.

On the day that was to be the start of their third trip, Colorado Springs is covered in a thick blanket of snow. They unanimously decide that spending the night in that kind of weather is one of those experiences best left in the past. Instead, they spend a comfortable evening in John's well heated apartment, curled up together in blankets and his soft overstuffed furniture. They watch _Stand by Me_.

In an attempt to preserve the essence of camping, after the movie John insists on making s'mores in the microwave.

Ronon adopts a grimace not unlike that of a child faced with a bowl full of squash. He selects a sandwich tentatively, the gooey white substance creating a long stringy fiber that traverses the distance between his hand the plate. "Why is it better when it's sticky and messy?" he asks, and his frown deepens. Apparently when they trained him to use silverware they created a stickler for cleanliness.

Elizabeth quirks her head to the side as she selects a s'more for herself. It's a valid question, she concedes. Spending more time with Ronon on Earth has led her to wonder at a lot of things they seem to do without thinking – like wearing high heels and neckties.

"It tastes better," John explains simply, offering the plate to Rodney before selecting one for himself. "And it melts the chocolate." 

"And makes that sticky too," Ronon points out, catching the evidence as it drips down his palm.

John nods and sucks sugar from his thumb. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Smoosh the crackers together more," Rodney instructs, demonstrating with his own. "Mash until it oozes out."

With an incredulous eyebrow Ronon does as instructed. He gives them one last wary look before taking the entire mess in one large, impressive bite.

All three of them burst into laughter.

"Good?" John asks when he finally manages to find his voice.

Instead of answering, Ronon pulls a marshmallow from the bag, breaks off a chunk of chocolate and grabs a graham cracker. He opens his mouth and tosses each in before crunching noisily. "Tastes the same," he says through a mouth full of food. "Less work."

Rodney shakes his head. "Foreigners."

Everyone laughs again and something warm and sweet settles into her chest. Before she can catch it her smile turns into a yawn and John rises to his feet. "Okay, kids," he says with a yawn of his own, "time for bed. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

As Rodney and Ronon make their way to the door, Elizabeth gathers the plates and glasses and shuffles them to the kitchen. When she returns she stops in the doorway and leans against the frame, taking a moment to let the evening seep in.

The apartment is mostly dark now, and John is sprawled lazily across the couch, one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped comfortably on his stomach. From the droop of his eyes she can tell he's fighting sleep.

"That was very deep of you," she says with an affectionate grin.

"What was?" John mumbles, opening his eyes.

"The movie," she answers, crossing the room and slipping off her shoes.

"What about it?"

She rolls her eyes and pats his chest. "The movie about four friends who learn that they're stronger together?" He wraps his hand around her wrist, pulling her closer. "That love and fear are better when shared? I didn't know you knew what a metaphor was," she teases, tugging lightly at his earlobe.

He yanks her arm and she tumbles to the couch, lying partially on top of him. "Please. I'm not that deep." A lock of her hair falls forward and he tucks it into place, tracing the shell of her ear with his finger. "I just knew it involved camping and they were out of _The Blair Witch Project_."

She doesn't believe him, even if he is a good liar.

She angles an arm so that she's propped up on one elbow. Her fingers drag through his unruly hair, and he reaches up to gently brush his thumb along her cheek. "It's not bad to need people," he says quietly.

She kisses him softly, reverently, but can't help herself and succumbs to the temptation to reacquaint herself with his mouth, the heat of the contact growing with each passing second. "Like that?" she whispers breathlessly into his lips, smiling when he shivers.

"Well, yes." He grins up at her. "But also," he bumps her nose with his own, "it's okay to need friends." He pulls back so he can meet her eyes.

Her head drops to his shoulder and she sighs. She rubs her face against the soft cotton of his shirt. "I know."

"Good." He nestles her more snugly into his arms, and though she can't see his face, somehow she knows that he's smiling.

Beneath her cheek, his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Outside, the wind whistles and the snow falls in large flakes.

This isn't what she thought she'd want or need. It's a different life than the one she'd imagined, but then again, it always has been. Things change, the world moves on and nothing has ever played out as predicted. She never thought she'd have Atlantis, and once she found it, she never truly believed it would be taken from her. But she did and it was, and now a new chapter of her life is beginning.

And, though it's not what she envisioned, she loves it all the same.

-- --


End file.
